Mirrors
by Lady in the Willows
Summary: One of the stories in the Third Morbidity Contest at PFN. Christine returns to Erik. But he doesn't believe it... And disbelief often leads to certain unfavorable emotions.


**Disclaimer: POTO is not mine.**

**Mirrors**

She was cold.

She was always cold so far under the earth. Even with the warm fire crackling in the hearth, she shivered. Nothing else could be heard but the fire and her own shuddering breaths. The silence was as unnerving as it was unnatural. There was always music in the air. Music or the sounds of sketching or building, always some activity filled the place.

But not now.

Now it was as cold and empty as a tomb. A tomb that was lavishly endowed with a fireplace, Persian rugs and a baby grand piano in the corner. She stood in front of the mirror, the only mirror in that tomb, staring at the reflection of the room. She could see herself as well. Despite her feelings, her hair was a healthy gold and her blue eyes sparkled per usual. If she was a bit paler, none were the wiser.

There was only Erik down here, after all. Only Erik.

One perfect tear slid down her marble cheek. Her poor Erik. How he suffered! He'd wanted her to go with Raoul. And at first she had.

But then she'd returned, unwilling to leave his side. Erik was furious at the time. He'd screamed at her, practically shattering the mirror with his cries. Then he'd wept violent, angry tears. He'd begged her to leave, to simply abandon him to his loneliness.

"After all," he'd whispered, "I was born to it." Of course, she couldn't leave him. Her soul was bound to his. She refused to go.

The days since then had been filled with the same eerie silence that she listened to now. Erik hadn't spoken a word to her. He hadn't even looked at her. She wanted to weep from the pain of it. Why would he ignore his angel?

Then the silence was broken with the soft creaking of the door. Erik came into the room, his masked face cold and unfeeling. As usual, he was dressed all in black. But now it felt as if he were truly walking to his own funeral. Living for it, waiting for it.

"Erik," she murmured; her voice was weaker than she'd planned. His head jerked upwards, yellow eyes flashing.

"You're still here," he spat. "Why won't you leave?"

"I love you, Erik. I can't leave you."

"You did leave!" he roared. "You already left. I don't know why you're here."

She began to cry, miserable tears. "I already told you why. I've told you a thousand times. Is it so hard to believe that I can love you?"

He turned from her and faced the piano. "Christine doesn't love me," he murmured. "She doesn't."

"Yes, I do! I've told you and told you. I do!" There was only silence as an answer. Silence and the eternally crackling fire.

She continued to weep. She leaned against the glass of the mirror, sobbing. "Erik, I love you," she whispered, over and over. I love you, I love you.

Silence.

After another week of silent waiting, Erik confronted her once more. She was in that room with the piano and the mirror. He was certain of that. But what was he to say to her? He'd already demanded that she leave. She still stayed.

Shouting at her did nothing.

He couldn't force her out. Erik simply wasn't able to touch her. He couldn't bring himself to try.

The door creaked open and he saw her immediately. She was leaning against the mirror, looking expectantly at the door. At him. His breath hissed in.

She was as perfect as ever.

"Go away," he choked out. "Just go away."

Her hopeful smile faded away. "Why?"

Good, there were no more declarations of love, of fidelity. At least he didn't have to put up with that. "You aren't Christine. That's why. Christine would never come back. She ran away with her precious vicomte. You're just an illusion."

Instead of admitting to defeat, the vision of Christine smiled softly. "My poor Erik, is that what you think? Now I understand why you've been so distant." She reached out a hand to him, still smiling. "I am real Erik. Touch me." He took a step back, shaking his head vigorously.

"No," he said hoarsely. "No, I cannot touch you." Her smile faltered but her hand did not waver. It still reached out toward him hopefully. "Cruel fantasy," he moaned. "Be gone! You aren't wanted here."

"But you do want me, Erik," she proclaimed. "I know you do. Don't be afraid of me. Don't send me away." Despite himself, despite everything in him screaming to run away, he took a step forward.

Another step.

He shouldn't do this.

Another step.

She wasn't real; he would touch nothing but air.

Another step.

But she looked so lovely, so innocent. She couldn't be lying. She just couldn't be.

Another step.

And if she was?

There were no more steps to take when that thought occurred to him. What if she was lying? What if she was just a figment of his distraught imagination? What would he do with her?

What could he do with her?

She watched hopefully as his gloved hand tentatively reached out to touch hers. But there was no contact. His fingers met the glass instead. She frowned. Why on earth did he refuse to touch her?

Erik let his fingers slide across the mirror's cold surface. There was something odd about mirrors. He just realized what it was. He looked up at her, smiling. "I understand now."

She smiled back and reached out for him. But he backed away from her, picking up a lonely candelabrum. "I understand now," he said again and struck the mirror. She screamed as the glass cracked, her own image shattering. He struck again and the glass fell across the floor. Tiny diamond shards sparkling against the carpet winked up at him.

He understood about mirrors now.

They seemed to reflect people. Maybe, in some way, the mirror had reflected Christine's urge to stay with him. He was thankful for that, at least. But there was no way he could live with her in that mirror, completely beyond his touch.

So he'd shattered her.

Christine's reflection ran across the fragments of her former home, fleeing from the damage. She wasn't Christine. She never could be.

She was only… a reflection.


End file.
